Chronicles of Betty Foy

I am losing my touch - sigh!

2010-05-13T19:47:00.004+05:30

As evidence

Chapter the Second: Where the Lead Cast is Hungover

Dee woke up to mayhem. The world was ending... or it was the last day of a 98% discount in Mirabelle's... or her cat was singing Juditha Triumph-whatsit... or was all of this happening simultaneously... what was that infernal racket for crying out loud? Can't a body get some effing sleep in her own effing house at bloody effing three in the afternoon? Oh wait – that was the clock ticking. Loud enough to be heard in Slovenia – just like grandma.

"Might as well get up I suppose", Dee muttered as she raised her head off the pillow gingerly. It lolled a bit but remained connected to the rest of her. One leg off the bed – slide, slide, slide, flail mid-air, contact! Now the other – effing hell... maybe back to bed till the room stopped tossing around so vigorously? That would be a waste though – she was almost off the bed. And everyone knows that almost off the bed is half way to office. Not that she needed to go to office today. But she could have if she had had to.

Finally up, she vacillated – frig it, big words – must be high still! – between making a gigantic tumbler full of very hot very strong very very black coffee and calling Cilly and checking on her. She decided that since Cilly had always been there for her, ever since they met in boarding school (ha... some meeting that had been – "Hello, I am Cecilia Devrett, your roommate. My friends call me Cilly though." "As in intellectually challenged? Some friends! I am Dianna by the way – my friends call me Dee." "As in cup size? Some friends" – in all honesty, there could have been no looking back after that), it was about time she responded in kind. Right after the coffee.

***

Ting. What Cilly couldn't understand was the, ting, little-bell-on-the-counter. Why have a little-bell-on-the-counter when she was standing, ting, right behind it anyway – and was in fact, ting, here to do just that. There was no back-of-the-shop to disappear, ting, into and be summoned from. Emmy said the little-bell-on-the-counter, ting?, added ambience to the store. Emmy, ta-ting, was Cecilia's friendly neighbourhood librarian – her very own Casper with a penchant for Rosetti as it were. Emmy was also currently, ting, ensconced in said friendly neighbourhood library, ting-traling-aling, and not having to listen to the indeterminate-age-probably-boy-since-girls-are-prettier-monster-child playing master to Cilly's... butler? parlourmaid?... who did respond to bells?... ting ting ting (wasn't that on cue), while the indeterminate-age-etc's mother browsed Cilly's bookstore for something "suitably edifying and uplifting" for Augustus. Assuming Augustus was the monster, Cilly would have recommended the Bible. TING. Maybe a copy with notes in the margin. Ting triling. St. Peter's notes in the margin. Hoping the troll's IQ was at least double digit, Cilly was persuaded to part with The Railway Children. At least they left and she could always buy another copy so it wasn't much of a loss either, which was admittedly a funny way to run a bookstore. But no more bells ringing – Cilly could have jigged. Except she couldn't chance it – she didn't think she had enough neural control left to stop bobbing her head if she started. And she did not want to spend the rest of inst. hangover nodding like – like – like – Noddy. It was one in the afternoon. Cilly hadn't slept the whole night. Hadn't been much point to it since the binging stopped at 7 in the morning and the book shop ("The Turrets" – Cilly had spent an entire CSI episode trying to come up with a name) opened at 10. And the boss was a bitch. Well, the boss was Cilly. But then Cilly was a bitch too. Or at least she liked to think of herself as one. If she couldn't be morally loose, she could damn well try her hardest to be a bitch – after all a girl's got to have some pride. And a certain je ne sais quoi. Being a bitch qualified.

She'd give Dee another three or four hours. And then she'd call Dee, cackle on for a bit, mention some form of solid sustenance – slip it in casually. And remember to not mention a sandwich place. Neil had been wrong for Dee. Cilly knew it. Cilly's mum knew it. Dee's mum knew it. Emmy knew it. Hell, Neil knew it. Everyone except Dee in fact – and she ought to have known it. Especially because Dee always chose the wrong man – if there was a rotter within a ten mile radius, Dee'd manage to stumble upon him, adopt him, fall for him, promote him, sleep with him, be fleeced by him, be dumped by him and bemoan him – not necessarily in that order and sometimes within the space of less than a week. Dee Worried Cilly. And this was not a slogan for breakfast cereal.

Ting.

See what I mean... why does the bloody muse have to be feline instead of canine.

A re decedunt

2009-11-07T17:09:00.003+05:30

This website now has an official seal, i.e., this. Characteristically, it has an inverted Medusa, red-and-black, vague cacophony of semi-mythological symbols, and random latin. I mean c'mon... what else does a seal need, right?

What this means for you is that you can now get an official seal of approval from me. So incentive for y'all to play nice.

The Desert Sheikh's Secret Virgin Mistress

2009-11-05T02:26:00.005+05:30

Apart from the fact that this is simply the maximum number of images I have ever had to work through in my first encounter with a title, there is also the intrigue... what exactly is secret? The fact that she (presumably) is a virgin? Or that she (ditto) is a mistress? And who is it a secret for? I mean the former can't be a secret for her, and the latter can't be for her and him. Us? So why bother reading?

And to think this is all explained away in 124 pages... the human mind is a wonder!

Chapter the First - Where the Lead Cast is Bingeing

2009-10-25T17:17:00.005+05:30

“So, the way I figure it is so –”

“Isn’t that an extra ‘so’… grammar-wise?”

“Shut up and listen Cilly… I’m philosophizing.”

“At effing 2.47 in the morning? Of an effing working day?”

“Not for me… only the staff in McDonald’s works weekends. Not us suits.”

“Great… go ahead… be a selfish bitch… show no mercy for the under-working-class friend.”

“Alright then. In which case, like I was saying –”

“Ugh Dee… just ugh!”

“Shh… listen. Everyone loves themselves, right?”

“Not everyone. Some people pretty much hate their lives.”

“But that’s just it… they hate their lives because they are convinced that they deserve better… which is because they love themselves. Even people who keep drawing attention to their faults or illnesses or shit… they just want the rest of us to notice how interesting they are. See?”

“Hmm… maybe. So?”

“So if someone knows me the way I know me… he, or she, depending on gender… no wait, it’s orientation these days… so much politics! Why can’t I call a babysitter a babysitter if what she does for a living is sit babies?”

“Knows you the way you know you?”

“Hmm? Oh yeah. Knows me the way I know me. Then he has to fall in love with me. I mean logically… I know me. I love me. Ryan knows me. Ryan will love me. Right?”

“Who’s Ryan?”

“No one. It’s just a name. Don’t you just love names with a ‘y’ in them?”

“You’re so Russian sometimes Dee.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“It’s Russian.”

“Like salad?”

“Yup… completely tossed.”

“I wish you were a guy Cilly… then I could have fallen for you… I think.”

“Okay… disturbing visual there. Maybe we should put the bottle away now.”

“What have we been having anyway? Doesn’t taste like any wine I’ve ever had.”

“Not wine… wine finished an hour back twit. This is scavenged white rum.”

“Scavenged?”

“Discovered under the sink while rooting around for kitchen towels.”

“Oh. Well. No harm done I suppose. After all, if they use alcohol to preserve stuff then alcohol itself can’t possibly go bad, can it?”

“I suppose not.”

“And it will definitely not rip your heart out, shred your self-esteem to bits, and tell you over an effing sandwich that you are not meant and that it met someone else.”

“Ah… we’re back to Neil now, are we?”

“What? Who’s Neil? Never heard of a Neil in my life. Except for that Armstrong fellow. That bastard! That assholish moronic scum-of-the-universe jelly-limbed stone-hearted bastard!”

“Armstrong?”

“No! My Neil!”

“You mean ex-My Neil. Or is it My ex-Neil? No that is definitely wrong… he is still Neil. Just not yours. Maybe ‘ex-My’, give a pause, and then Neil.”

“Just give me more wine Cill.”

“Rum. We’re having rum. At least we are for another shot each. Then we’re down to vodka.”

“Whatever. Just continue pickling my liver please.”

“C’mon Dee! I gotta go to work tomorrow!”

“Why? You hate it anyway. Quit.”

“You can’t be plastered enough to not be able to spell money dear heart. Plus it’s not like you like your job either. In fact, if memory guides me correctly, which to be fair, at this point in this evening’s entertainment is fairly doubtful, you way beyond hate it.”

“Oh gawd Cill! How did I end up this way? How? I was going to be so glam… I was going to have exotic adventures… I was going to have a high-flying job, a gorgeous absolutely-Rhett love-of-my-life, a black cat, and one of those nifty convertibles. I was going to be Sex-in-the-effing-City. And now look at me! I am… I am…”

“Teletubbies?”

“Worse. A Teletubby rerun. And not even in plural.”

“I know honey… I know.”

“No you don’t.”

“No. I don’t... More vodka?”

“Keep it coming sister… just keep it coming.”

***

Ahem.

2009-09-12T21:26:00.005+05:30

I announce my presence, hereafter, on this blog.
I genuinely doubt (alternatively use 'hope') that any of you are aware of the blood relation between Betty and myself unless you are more intimately acquainted with either of us, in which case you have my pity. From now this 'web netted from threads taken out of thin air' will also host some of my sporadic ... posts?... articles?... pearls?...convictions?... epiphany?... Never mind.
Just so you know.
Well, it will definitely be amusing...
I am sure you will welcome my ________(fill from the above options) with applause and comments (a non-subtle hint. Take it.)
Thank you.

Mission Mehbooba

2009-06-12T21:17:00.003+05:30

With all due respect, the Chinese know jack. All that zengaling about contemplation being the zenith of civilization doesn't wash. I've been doing nothing for the past few months, so I know what I am talking about - lethargy annihilates as many grey cells as indirect tax law classes. I haven't had a new thought in aeons... nothing... nada... zero... (see what I mean). Aargh!

Allegedly, the perfect way to snap out of a state of somnolence is to find direction... hence, I hereby announce the launch of Mission Mehbooba... get 3.64 inches off my waist or perish in the attempt.

Ooh... thought! Umm!

Ugh!

2009-04-23T21:18:00.002+05:30

I’ve always been a decisive sort of person professionally… the obsessive kinds with a twenty-three year plan (A, B, C and fallback). On a personal level, I’m a mess… I should have been born a decade earlier… then I wouldn’t have to explain why I have an unexplainable affinity towards disco heels, Top Gun theme, Fifth Element and Independence Day, George Michael (yes… I do… deal), the Beanstalk logo, Maurier, Gericault, bubble wrap and high-rises.

And then there’s the fact that I can never shop for anything for myself… and when I do buy stuff for myself, ten minutes out of the store and I already hate what I bought. I could pretend I like something except image consultants are so darned expensive… and let’s face it, until I take over the world, I remain the proletariat. But then, how long can they restrain greatness? I shall bide my time… and meanwhile have disastrous wardrobe days thrice a week.

This is also why I shall be looking like an underage-wannabe-pink-cinderella-in-a-vague-semblance-of-an-evening-dress-thingummy for my farewell.

At least I am passing out of the Uni. And the food’s free.

Loose Ends

2009-04-08T11:36:00.002+05:30

Having them - a second disc that doesn't work... last few pages of a book torn... case briefs I work on and can't attend... ad nauseum.

Being at one - nowhere to go... nothing to do... staring at the ceiling fan and attendant chandelier-cobwebs... very whatever, if you know what I mean.

I don't know if I'd rather be braindead of boredom or have panic attacks due to impending change. I don't know what I am now.

Someone please tell me it's just hormones and will soon pass.

Epitaph to Mrs. Amos Pinchot

2009-03-23T23:36:00.004+05:30

What are those dime-a-dozen and loopy-rhyming thingummies called Hans? Not sonnets… too mellow. Jingles? No… they’re sung, aren’t they. Not ballads… so intensely prosaic. And limericks, everyone knows, are too short and hardly subtle. Something sillier. Ah… doggerels… that’s the word.

Here it is then… a doggerel… called nothing… inspired from a property law class (hence, you’re not expected to understand)… I’ve always found ennui exceedingly conducive to the Muse.

There was once a man
With a woman next door –
Who had moved in three months back
And they’d never met before.

But as often happens
In cases such as this,
Non-acquaintance didn’t stop them
They often shared a kiss.

Then within a month
Of such last shared kiss,
The lady had a baby
And said that it was his.

The enterprising lady then
Took to court this man,
Poor fellow, he panicked
And to his lawyer he ran.

The lawyer was a huge comfort:
“Suit’ll be dismissed with cost…
Babies aren’t born in four months”
But – goodness! The man lost!

He was declared the father
Made liable for the maintenance
The judge was asked to explain
It just didn’t make sense.

Said the judge: “Family law isn’t my game,
For me, negotiable instrument is much clearer,
And there the principle is my friend,
The instrument belongs to the last bearer.”

P.S. Knock thrice if you understood. It’s easier to aim if the quarry makes a sound

Evil Under the Sun

2009-03-20T14:10:00.005+05:30

There is always a reason behind all evil men, women and pigs commit. Mostly fun. Sometimes processes less primal and profound. So I never really mind when people are rude, or insolent, or generally pea-brained. They have their reasons, and that's that.

(Of course I exact revenge... but then that is what I am supposed to do. It's very quid pro quo if you get my meaning.)

But the one thing I can never excuse is not respecting someone else's time. It's like you don't register as a discrete entity. Which is why it is much much more debased than being merely unethical or immoral. It's unprofessional.

So whenever I have to insult you, please believe me when I say that I'll be on time. Even if you are a woolly-brained, lily-livered glob of fat with the IQ of an amoeba who is missing half a chromosome - you matter.

Of Jus ad Bellum, Geneva Conventions and other Assorted Midsem Items of Interest

2009-03-16T20:18:00.003+05:30

Few could follow the twists and tantrums of the warring nobility. Most soldiers did not try.

A herald brought news of the new change of allegiance. It was laughable. After three weeks of intense fighting the men within the walls found themselves in the ludicrous situation of sharing the inner walls with a new enemy, while men who had been trying to kill them for weeks were now friends who waited outside with their siege engines. The captains arranged a hasty council to debate the question of who was now attacking what. Some of the troops besieging the fort now wished to defend it, while one group of the defenders – who should now be attacking it – were already inside it. The council meeting went on for five days.

Since no agreement could be reached, the three captains came up with a new solution. All four groups of mercenaries set about undermining the walls of the fort, bringing the old stones crashing down. Hence there was no longer a fort to defend, and they could all march away with honour satisfied

Calling Iago

2009-02-21T11:00:00.002+05:30

I told three people I'm writing a book.

And they didn't laugh.

I think I've got a reputation.

Let the games begin! Slainte!

Season's Greetings

2009-02-02T07:04:00.002+05:30

Let's pretend I never went away. That done... I spent the entire of yesterday watching christmas movies, reading christmas(y) books and listening to carols (my favourites are Rudolf and the Twelve Days of Christmas... even now). So this side of the screen, 'tis the season to be jolly... on this, the second day of February.

It's not like I like Christmas... in fact, being from a convent school and all, it wouldn't be wrong to say that for ages my sole association of Christmas was with prissy school parties. Later, much much much later , I saw CP in Christmas finery and fell in love.

And the affair endureth... especially post-commercialization-r-us, when it can be Christmas or Valentine's or Apocalypse any lil ol' day... you have to love money... it has so much potential.

So anyway... Merry Christmas everyone... join us tomorrow, same time same place, to celebrate the end of civilization as we know it.

Mid-Year Resolution

2008-08-05T22:02:00.003+05:30

It's more difficult seeing people close to me taking blows chin-up than being runover myself... the latter I can handle... I can even revel in the challenge. The former just leaves me wringing my hands with a profound sense of futility... and all I can do is hug the person, play the fool, and hope the day will soon be over.
It's not about taking the bullet for a loved one... it's about having the potential-assassin drawn, quartered, impaled, hung, dragged over shards of glasses bound in red-hot chains, sewn up in a sack and thrown to the crocodiles... until he faints. Waiting till he regains consciousness. Then repeating.

I'm not falling in love with any more people than I already have fallen in love with. I simply lack the courage and the stamina to just stand by. Or the wisdom.

Saving Grace

2008-08-01T18:49:00.003+05:30

Excuse the Houdini... I've been riding a wild horse into the sun... the carousel's closed now and I'm back to being my own star in fairy-tale land. All vacancies hereby closed.

Though what intrigued me out of my not-too-pleasant-but-too-addictive-to-actually-give-it-a-conscious-thought-state-of-somnolence was a phone call by a titch for help with social science homework... on genocide. Please take note:

Titch: "Didi... kuch karo... meri teacher ko genocide pe article chahiye... papa ne kaha iska idea sirf aapko best hoga... batayo... jaldi... dus minute main school bus chali jaayegi"

Yours truly: "Ok... apne papa ko bolna ki unse main detail main baad main baat karungi... meanwhie write: Genocide is the systematic repression... that is, s-y-s-t..."

Titch-mentioned-above: "Oho... I know how to write 'systematic repression'... aage bolo..."

Imagine... that pip... couldn't spell "cat" to save his life till the day before... not that I can think of a situation where spelling "cat" would save anyone's life, but the argument remains. I mean... this is the same garden gnome who used to tell me which Pokemon was the most rare and why people threw random cards at each other in some arbit anime show. And now he can spell "systematic repression"!

I'd have faded away into a signature Gericault if he hadn't asked me "is that 'grace' with a c or s?"

At least I'm not rendered entirely redundant... yet. Maybe if I'm extremely nice to him when I go back home, he'll play rock-paper-scissor with me and I can be struthious a while longer.

Letter to the Cosmic Void

2008-06-21T09:23:00.002+05:30

Dear Void,

Hello... long time and all... I'd love to stay and be polite but this message is selfish. It's not like I don't love you or anything but I desperately need a favour.

You comprehend the concept of a last fling before tying the knot I assume? This is similar. I want to work with a publishing house/magazine/newspaper/dainik jagran/whatever before I join the teeming ranks of the nouveau lawyers come August 2009. Given that my CV has absolutely nothing to support such an ambition, I'm in, what is often divertingly referred to, as a 'fix'. Hence the SOS call. Being as how you may be into journalism and all, and in any case being the all-knowing-cosmic-void-type-thingummy that you are anyway, can you tell me what sort of internship position I should be applying for? And frankly, though beggars can emphatically not be choosers, I really would prefer sumfing above the level of the chai-wallah. Proof-reading maybe... whatever that is.

Thank you for listening. I shall await your response with bated breath.

Love.

Platonic.

B.F.

P.S. How are you?!? (see... the letter is not entirely selfish... just mostly).

Dear blog readers: Since I do seem to have lost my mind... finally... you're welcome to send in suggestions too... ones that make sense, as difficult as it might be for your sense(s) of moral rectitude. Consider this an official cry for help: "Help".

Let's see how useful this blogging thing can be.

Milestone

2008-06-17T11:13:00.002+05:30

Betty Foy is all of one today. It's been a strange year. Mostly a good one, though a little rough around the edges. I have changed... irrevocably perhaps. Betty, though, continues to as irrepressibly trinianed as ever. Thank gawd for constants. So anyway... all together now... a one and a two and a... "yappy burrday".

Good show, everyone.

This Post is Dolphin-friendly

2008-05-30T08:23:00.003+05:30

I’ve been keeping busy. Visiting one month old babies in Melbourne and watching butt-nekked men in Sydney can get awfully time-consuming. I’ve also been making random lists for no earthly reason other than the fact that I seem to have become inordinately fond of watching ink-words materialize on rice-paper.

Came up with one while completing my business law assignments. The plural is not deployed ill-advisedly. I figured there is no point wasting time each week so I just upped and finished the weekly assignments due for the next three weeks… and no, that is not a nerdy thing to do. Meanwhile, like I was saying… I love the world. Like my own sister. Which doesn’t mean that it can’t do with improvements. The world I mean, not my sister. Her too of course but I don’t call her “it”. At least not in public. Mostly. So anyway. Here’s my list of things the world can do/not do (dis-do?) with:

Domestically challenged needs to be recognized as a handicap – physical, emotional, psychological. And legal. The legal regime needs to be sensitized to the special vulnerabilities that can be occasioned by a general inability to cook, clean and do the laundry. More importantly, financial help needs to be provided to the victims of such a syndrome. This need not necessarily translate into extra burden on the treasury. Tax dollars can simply be diverted from other low priority areas. Personally I think either flood relief or education would be a safe bet.
Baggy, depressing school uniforms in extreme bad taste and redolent with the stench of oppression should be outlawed. I have a niece who quite succinctly sums up the general attitude of the populace targeted by such measures of repression and control: “they stink”.
Selective extermination of selected specimens would also be a decided improvement. I already have a six-and-a-half page list of names… purely as reference of course.
Initiate de-stress weeks where everyone gets to act ten years less than the age mentioned on their passports or any other form of identification accepted by the government. The psychiatrists thus put out of work due to the resultant de-stressing can re-harness their skill and channel them towards babysitting kids ten years or less, who during the de-stress week would perforce not exist.
More proportion: tasty food should be healthy; desirable men should be available; sexy dresses should allow the wearer to breathe (the wearee is expected not to); sitting on grass should not stain business suits; faucets should be marked hot, cold and coffee. Etcetera.
Pets should have the same life span as the respective pet owners. Lovers and spouses maybe. Pets definitely.
People should not be named Gilbert. This is emphatically not a pet peeve. Sociological evidence has recently come to light that demonstrates the debilitating effect such a moniker can have not only on the bearer but also on those such a person comes in daily contact with. I mean reah-lly… what was Montgomery thinking?
Free books and movies should be easier to locate on the internet. Dissent implies upholding capitalism. And if you just said “so?” to that then I’ll just have to pretend you don’t exist… so there.
A five year mandatory conscription program should be introduced wherein the first year is to be utilized for penning a things-to-do-before-I-die list and the next four years for doing those things. Government funding may be requisitioned for this scheme under the same framework as delineated earlier. The department may require participants to submit one page reports on Paris to ensure answerability. People who don’t have Paris on their list should be shot.

Up with Betty Foy! Betty Foy for President! Long live olimanopsygarchy!

Personal Progression - Projecting for the Future

2008-05-07T14:32:00.004+05:30

A. Learn to do nifty things with the camera - start with learning what a viewfinder is and proceed until confident of requisite shutter speeds for a goddamned pinhole camera.

B. Salsa - the dance and the dip. In heels and with tacos respectively.

C. Finally finish reading "The Famished Road"... even if it kills me... a book semi-read for the past 8.5 years does nothing for my reputation.

D. Take up aerobics - for more than two days at a time. Maybe even jujitsu.

E. Blind date. What's life without a psycho or two?

F. Learn French and Spanish. Read Balzac and Marquez. Flaunt having read Balzac and Marquez in French and Spanish.

G. Learn what look works for me. Cultivate it. See if it gels with a tattoo of a griffin.

H. Get a tattoo of a griffin.

I. Find out what a griffin really is.

J. Become a workaholic. Shame my employers into giving me humongous salaries (note the plural). Save. Resign and buy a bookshop.

K. Try to not become a stuttering puddle of saliva when faced with chocolate. Alternatively, marry into the family owning Godiva.

L. Take time out to run through the rain. Buy shoes befitting the same.

M. Learn to make three-tier cakes.

N. Not be obsessed with perfection.

O. Go for regular med check-ups. Find a cute doctor. Purely as incentive.

P. Hug parents more often.

Q. Apologize to P for telling her she is an adopted Martian. One day. Eventually.

R. Take up a pseudo-intellectual hobby. Talk to everyone about it at parties. Revenge is sweet.

S. Learn to drive a bike. Talk about Harley-Davidsons intelligibly.

T. Reduce dependence on artificial stimulants. Convince ISO to classify coffee as a natural stimulant.

U. Become more social. Learn to not scowl at people making small talk about the weather and traffic and Microsoft's takeover bid for Yahoo.

V. Learn swimming. Take psychiatric help to help develop selective amnesia and forget about Jaws. 1, 2 and 3.

W. Accomplish at least one daredevil-type thingummy. Apart from shopping for groceries.

X. Buy red heels. Stilettos. Get accident insurance.

Y. Try and locate people I knew in school. Call them out of the blue and girly-scream.

Z. Invent more alphabets.

Saunters

2008-04-28T22:09:00.001+05:30

I just finished reading a book. On the earliest memories remembered and what they mean. I thought long and hard. And my earliest memory is of a kitchen that smelled of… well it smelled tangy and mysterious and not like detergent or food or spices or anything else you’d expect a kitchen to smell like. In fact, now that I come to think of it, it smells like my mother. Sort of. It has grey tiles. Not those dainty, polished ones but the big grainy sorts one finds in government bungalows. The sort that make you want to rub your heel against the floor to feel the slight grate. And I remember there is a shelf… quite low… stone. I firmly believe I don’t remember anything other than the floor or that shelf because I was short. Kids are, you know. So anyway.

This shelf must have had stuff… obviously… mom would consider it criminal to waste space. It’s strange but I don’t remember what she kept on, or rather in this shelf, for at my height then it was more of an alcove. Except for a pink plastic… I guess you could call it a basket for lack of a better word. And she stocked onions in it.
And I remember it so well because the earliest memory of my life is of dawdling in to that kitchen, up to that shelf, painstakingly upending the basket so that the onions tumbled out one by one and rolled into the remotest corners possible, then taking that basket outside and gathering those pink-paper-flowers-whose-name-I-never-knew and putting them in the pink basket. Dark pink against pale pink. And I remember being delighted and happy and pretending I was grown-up and that this plucking of flowers and putting them in the basket had a purpose crucial to the scheme of the world.

What is really strange is that this memory is complete in itself. I don’t remember whether I got scolded for throwing the onions, or for sneaking out without telling anyone or for bringing flowers into the drawing room and messing the place up. I don’t remember being praised for it either or being told that I had amazing resourcefulness for a child who had just learned to walk. It’s just this snatch of memory… on its own… alone.

According to the book, this means I am creative, aloof, sociable, impetuous, fixated-with-family, rootless, calculating, and either good with children or extremely daft with technology… I’ll get back to y’all on the last bit soon as I figure out what page 72 really means.

P.S. Strange how I got the tenses mixed up while reminiscing… and grammar has always been my strong suit. Damn.

Breaking Even

2008-04-21T22:19:00.005+05:30

So what, if someone is a stubborn, wilful, misbegotten and childish person who can't see the wood for the trees when his/her temper is up and would seriously consider causing harm to him/herself just to prove a point? As long as he/she has great hair.

And A... you are still a prick... and all those other things as well. I like you regardless.

Job's Comfort

2008-04-17T05:56:00.006+05:30

Not counting this post, 'I', 'me' and 'my' occur 79 times on this page. It would appear that everything is always about me. When did I get so self-obsessed?

Ironic. Because this is about me too, isn't it? For today, this makes me a little uncomfortable. Maybe tomorrow I'll love me again. Until then, I'll wish I was home so P could give me a hug.

Until then, I'll dive into chocolates like they are the goddamned Pacific... to hell with Atkins.

P.S. Maybe I am getting maudlin in my old age.

Random Pink Highlights

2008-04-14T14:02:00.003+05:30

It pleases me to be writing so prolifically again. It’s not cathartic anymore… it’s a celebration.

After ages, I danced in front of the mirror and made pouty faces. Without music. Just because. And laughed.

I haven’t slept a wink for the past 75 hours… and am still as full of beans as the coffee can in the larder. I have no idea why.

I go out at 5.30 each morning and sit on the steps drinking coffee till the sun comes up.

I have three assignments and one exam due next week. I haven’t even thought about beginning. And I’m not feeling guilty or panicked. Frankly, I don’t give a damn.

I’m having shopping-cravings. I used to hate shopping.

My room is a mess. And it doesn’t disturb me at all.

I heard the Sutta song and remembered that class trip to some random centennial-lecture-nonsense, when the guys sitting at the back in the bus sang the song at the top of their lungs but dropped their voices and merely hummed the good bits while passing conspiratorial glances at each other. It was only when I heard the song later that I realized they were being gentlemen. And I remember being surprised at the revelation. Also the college concert where the crowd conned the lead singer into taking up requests and how everyone insisted on singing Sutta and he turned the mike towards us because he was ignorant of the lyrics. When we hit the chorus, he spluttered… I swear. And when we didn’t stop, he tried to compensate by turning the mike towards the guys and away from the girls. Sexist bastard. The guitarist was cute though.

I have moved on and am now officially over dragons. It’s now witches.

I love being 21. I love feeling alive. It’s exciting. It’s intoxicating. It’s fun.

While I’ve been writing this, I’ve been grinning. Not smiling – grinning. Something has changed. And I haven’t a clue. But I wish stuff just stays this way. As long as I don’t flunk.

Update: I also just won Spider Solitaire with four suits. I am good.

Nicknaming the Rose

2008-04-12T18:56:00.004+05:30

Alternatively titled: Why I think Shakespeare knew jack about mothers.

Each time I leave home for a substantial amount of time, dad gives me a hug while my sister stands around shuffling her feet looking uncomfortable. Within a few days, mom calls to tell me my new name. The name she calls me by till I make her angry at me and she forgets. So far I have had seven names. Hand-picked, personalized, delicious monikers. One almost lasted two whole days.

So you see I'm not just a bitch. I'm a lucky bitch.

And if you ever read this mom, then please note that the human brain is not fully developed till the subject in question has attained a reasonably mature age... which is usually pegged to be somewhere around the early 20s. Till then we are all just half-brain-retard-type people. And that mom, is my excuse.

Serendipity

2008-04-09T19:59:00.004+05:30

Less than five days back, the fire alarm woke me up at 6... yes, in the morning. Fire drill.

Less then three days back, the flat downstairs forgot to turn the furnace fan on while deep-frying... the smoke tripped the fire alarm again... redundant, but not afraid to make itself heard. Aside. I know quite a few people like that too. Aside over.

Today, there was an actual fire.

I was in class at the time.

My life gains meaning. Again.

Fun facts: Since baring the wailings of my romance-starved soul to the world as of last post, the traffic on inst. site has gone up from 4 visits a day to 17. You, my dear readers, will rot in hell.

2008-04-07T09:07:00.004+05:30

Nothing, and I repeat nothing, could make me want to watch a chick-flick that ends on a happily-ever-after so that I could spend the night downing coffee and rewriting the ending to kill the hero or watch a grand war movie where a lot of hunky-male-type-men end up dead. Other than the horrible feeling of being in... well... liking someone.

Just a thought in passing you know. Only in passing. Which is why I don't have a title for this.

Incontrovertible Facts of Life

2008-03-31T01:36:00.002+05:30

As penned down on reams of Red Rooster napkins while waiting for the boarding call at Tullamarine. Including ruminations on the vacation in Melbourne. And in no logical order at all.

Photographs, videos and words can never do adequate justice to magic.
Relationship-wise, I am the human volleyball. Or the broken GI Joe figurine everyone wants to trade with their best friend’s weird-shaped-cornflakes collection.
If you’re on time, everything else will be delayed.
In this day of supersonics and console-games where everyone tries to bash each other over the head, in the game and out, pen and paper remain the best thing to have been invented.
The best discovery? Coffee machines of course, and you cannot convince me that something so exquisitely sublime was invented by mere mortals. I know the hand of Mother Nature when I see it.
Travelling is best with people who don’t mind driving down interesting looking dirt lanes to see where they end. Also who have no sense of private property.
Food never cooks if you stand and watch. The minute you go to the loo, it burns and sticks to the pan. Scrub-the-pan time in such cases is always inversely proportional to the time left before class starts.
Bill Bryson is the new Fa Hien.
You don’t really know how to spell Fa Hien either.
Everyone except Indians thinks 36 degrees is good weather. One can forgive this in the English… they build monuments to gherkins. What is everyone else’s excuse?
Good friends never remind you of the belly dance you did in the pub when you were sodden drunk. They merely put the video up on You Tube.
Dark skin is the new blonde.
Gulal tastes awful.
The best places are places where you end up unintended – usually as a loo-stop.
Watching random flights taxi up the runway before take-off is exhilarating. Watching ditto taxi down ditto before landing isn’t. It’s one of the quirks of modern technology.
If you have holi colour on your face, people in Melbourne stare.
Broken noses are nicer. Not too broken you know. Just a wee bit.
Hanging out in air-conditioned malls in summer is universal.
Shoes for babies that make squeaky sounds with each step taken and occasionally light up when the mood strikes them are universal too.
Haldirams’ ditto.
Chaat is nicer if someone else makes it. And grubby hands do make for better chaat. There’s no need to go “ew” because you know it’s the truth.
The bathroom is the messiest when it’s your turn to clean it.
Most kids are obnoxious. And tantrumy. And they smell sumfing awful. And they talk too much. Thank gawd I was never like that. Except for the talking too much bit that is.
We get up at 6 in the morning to go to school, college and to work so that we have enough money eventually to be able to sleep in till when we feel like. By the time, we wisen up and retire, we are either insomniacs or dead. Capitalism, like Marx said, is a bitch.
With particular reference to Australia: The cutest animals have the sharpest teeth. Also, the tinier the creature, the more the venom. Which still leaves the sharks. It isn’t all one huge beach party. Not at all.
If you remembered to bring along your charger, your mobile, adapter, ID cards, passport, credit cards, concession tickets, map of the region, handmade sketch of the transport system copied from the internet, extra pair of shoes, extra pair of jeans, your own special non-friz-type-hair-gel-thingy, a book to read, your glasses to read them with, a pair of scissors for just in case, a bottle of water and biscuits in case of nuclear fall-out, then in all probability you forgot your toothbrush. I did.
Virtual people make for the best of friends. Once you actually meet them, you can’t be as mean to them anymore.
Garfield had the purr-fect life.
Meg Ryan is the goddess of candy-floss and happily ever-afters. Meg Ryan is a multi-billionaire. Meg Ryan is alone and probably spends Saturday nights watching re-runs of either Larry King Live or You’ve Got Mail. I think there is a pattern here. If I only knew what.
I feel affronted if people don’t stare.
Grocery shopping never finishes in one trip. One always forgets the bread.
Inter-specie love is perfectly acceptable if between an average-looking girl and a koala called David. Just a thought in passing you know. Any resemblance to any such girls or Davids that exist is purely coincidental.
When depressed, chick-lit does the same for the hormones as chocolate. But then, so does suicide.
I miss Garfield.
Words that sound luverly: stallion, Spain, dark chocolate, flamenco, Peugeot, penthouse, antiques, Piazza del Castillo, Irish folk, whimsy, French window, wee, fireplace, free pizzas, midget, ember, home, sparkle, musty, coffee and kitten.
If you take out a pen and paper and pretend to write in lounge number 6 at Tullamarine, people stare. Reverently. Or at least that’s what I like to think.
In the train, usually, Asians sleep, Australians read, Europeans stare in the distance or look out the window. And Koreans take pictures.
Bed and food is best at home. For everything else there is MasterCard.
Playing holi while listening to kajrare invokes the rain-gods.
The more the cramped-er.
Taking 26 photographs of oneself and deleting all save that one particularly nice one is not vain or self-obsessed. It’s merely practice for being on the cover of Time.
Watching 5 year olds go boogie boarding when you can’t even swim puts all that education into perspective.

I can now throw the napkins away. Finally. But I think I’ll keep the ketchup.

Surf's Up

2008-03-15T16:00:00.001+05:30

Almost everyone I know has yearly rituals of one sort or another: people visit their hometown once a year, people visit Vaishnodevi once a year, people throw a party once a year… in fact I know people who jog for five minutes once a year (I do it twice… smirk!). Also, I’m pretty sure I know people who brush once a year, only they don’t ‘fess up.
I, as always, am a class apart. So I, unlike mere mortals without an ounce of ingenuity and gumption, sprain my ankle once a year. I’ve been doing it pretty consistently now for… oh… the past four or five years at the very least. Big sprain, small sprain, swelling, redness, itchiness, come rain or shine or exams… I’ve been there, done that… over and over again. You might think that it is difficult to manage… but that is because it has already been established you lack ingenuity and gumption. To me, it comes naturally. I don’t have to do a thing… I smile, I put a foot forward, and sprain the other foot… it’s really that simple.
But this year, things are a trifle unique. This is the first time ever that I have sprained my foot in Brisbane. Maybe because this is the first time I’ve been in Brisbane… who knows? So anyway. Here I was. At the beach. Reading a book. Looking gorgeous (I’ve always been fascinated by the fact that my reminisces are always in sepia and hence, I always look better in retrospect… maybe I was Dadaistic art in my previous life). And then I take it into my mind to let a friend teach me how to surf. Tangle in my sarong (luverly… borrowed… sigh!) and trip before I reach inst. friend. Ta-da!

The upside is that I’ve finally mastered the Zen art of cooking… close your eyes, reach into your shelf of the fridge (the “your” bit is optional), take as much of what-not as you can, put all of the said what-not in a microwaveable dish, take things to their logical conclusion and microwave everything thus transferred into the microwaveable dish. Voila… el sumfing-meaning-yummy-co.

So… basically I’m lame and I cook… if I don’t go to a parlour for the coming two weeks and grow a moustache, my own mother wouldn’t know me from Sanjiv Kapoor. And that just about sums up the past three days. That and Butterworths’ Legal Studies Series edition of Indigenous People and the Law in Australia (1st edition, 1995). Of everything else in this post, it is only the last mentioned that is highly recommended. For the rest… ad astra per alia porci.

Siyaah Haashiye

2008-03-06T10:04:00.004+05:30

Travel Tip: I am ashamed to confess that I never could distinguish who is from where just by looking at them… not even the Chinese… I keep thinking they are from Burma. Or, horror of horrors, via surnames… so no, I do not know where Mehras come from… or Sharmas… I just know the Iyers and Chatterjees and that I think is because mom used to tell me about them in her bedtime stories. Aside. If she told them to me, do they not then become my bedtime stories instead? Aside over. And yet here, I can always thump my chest with conviction and proclaim to all, sundry and Australians that awast there matey… behold there a damsel from India… yes, it is just the damsels… it’s not that I have anything against Indian men… on the contrary, I am purr-fectly fond of Chunnu-the-chaatwala… it’s just that the men don’t wear gendero-national-blah indicators in the form of kaajal… or insist on calling it kohl. In fact, in most cases inst. kaajal is also eminently indicative of age and/or ideological leanings of the particular specimen in hand… it is quite easy for the expert to tell apart a feminist from an anarchist from a deconstructionist from a bebopper from a librarian predicated solely on the quality, quantity and strokes of kaajal involved. So now you know… not that you wanted to… but Jeopardy worked in mysterious ways.

Flow of Reason: “The Shop Around the Corner” followed by “You’ve Got Mail”… that my freiend, is the flow of reason… and I am going to let that misspelling remain as much as it is against my firm convictions that the Giant was the first Chipko… because it is a statement… and I’m out of kaajal… and if you hadn’t guessed that by now, then you don’t exist.

P.S. In continuation of living with Mallus in Hyderabad and learning Malyalam, I am now living with Columbians and Germans and Slovenians and Japanese and learning Korean… I personally view this progression as highly typical of my life thus far. You might not… but you don’t exist anyway so what the hell.

First Impressions

2008-02-26T18:29:00.003+05:30

At least P would like the title. So yeah... I'm here in Brisbane. And I have no first impressions... I slept through them all... but I like being here... very different from home... a lot more no-clothes parties for one... and the foliage is amazing... it's like living in the middle of the jungle... with salons and pubs and cafes and ATM machines and regular bus service to other jungles.

But what has reah-lly stuck is the food... mainly because yours truly can't cook... at all... not one teensy bit... no sir... not me. Not even pasta... so for two days I was surviving on Maggie, which should now just be declared the national food of India and be finished with... then today my flatmate (bless her!) taught me how to make pasta... turned out quite well actually... I'm growing up.

Mom should be happy... exchange has taught me what she never could (of course because I never would)... to look at the lowest shelves in grocery stores, to add 1 litre of water to 100 grams of pasta and a spoon of tomato pesto, to open a bank account and to save polythene bags for future use. Who'd have thought?

Aside: My flat has a laundry room downstairs... and next to that room is another window with a placard propped in it which reads "Danger: Crocodile Nesting"... I like it here already. And this has no significance here but I really want to say it... crikey!

Swiss school needed

2008-02-19T21:26:00.003+05:30

So. I can't eat with a knife-and-fork... therefore there's no point even talking about chopsticks. No small-talk-skills possessed at all... not even the weather dammit! Grooming is limited to wearing lip balm. I'm officially a corporate failure... and I'm not even in the corporate world yet. My education system has failed me... so has Chunnu-the-chaatwala... excuse me while I curl up and play dead for a while... there's no need to make detours though... just step over me... I won't mind.

Also I hate the new font on Blogger... what happened to democracy... or did I sleep through it all... again?

Mush Remembered: An Obituary

2008-02-17T20:28:00.003+05:30

Mush watched: When Harry Met Sally (for the nth time), Sleepless in Seattle (for the 1st time... can you imagine!), Must Love Dogs, Frankie and Johnny.

Mush attempted-to-be-watched-but-given-up-due-to-various-reasons-including-but-not-restricted-to-food: Tristan and Isolde, Pretty Woman, My Best Friend's Wedding, Perfect.

Mush heard: On assorted radio channels... one that seems to have most recall value is a mushvaganza called "Love Hour"... I'm not letting the radio name my kids... or dog.

Hot chocolate consumed: None (I'm watching my figure... and no, you're not invited)

Coffee consumed: None (we were out of coffee... it's almost like survival camp here)

Rather tame, if you ask me... next time I'm going naturist... that way I don't have to shop either.

Down with feminism

2008-02-10T01:45:00.002+05:30

Post recollected. Post deleted. I am un-desperate again.

Waking up

2008-02-02T11:28:00.000+05:30

I don't believe in destiny but there are certain things I've always known about myself... for instance, one day I'll learn to make chocolates at home... one day I'll go to Paris and backpack across Egypt... and London... one day I'll have an apartment in a high-rise overlooking a very busy road... one day I'll have a secretary who'll make coffee the way I like it... one day I'll have a library dressed in ebony which will be bigger than the rest of my apartment put together... one day I'll have red heels and will speak Spanish... one day I'll have a 'patchwork cat' called Nefertiri... I've always known all of this will happen to me.
So yeah... I've been to London. A magnificent anti-climax. My dreams are so much more prettier... which is a lot more comparatives in one sentence than is grammatically allowed. But what the hell... the secretary will take care of all of that... right after she gets me my coffee.

(Some people never learn... I sympathize mom)

Deprecating Criticsrant – Alphabetically

2008-01-21T17:32:00.000+05:30

Abdomen abdominal abduction aberration abeyance abhorrence abidance ablution abnegate abominable abominate abomination aboriginal aborigines aboveboard abrogate abscission absolution abstemious abstinence academic academician accelerate accommodate accompaniment accordion accumulate acetate. Achillean achromatic acknowledge acknowledgment acoustic acquiescence acquisition acquittance acrimonious adherence adjuration administrator admonition adoration adulterant advertiser aeronautics aerostatics affectation affirmative aforesaid afterthought agglomerate aggrandize aggravation alabaster alcoholism alderman aldermanship alienable alleviate alteration alternative. Amalgamate amateur ambidextrous ambiguous ambitious ambrosial ambulance ameliorate. Americanism amphibious amphitheater amusement anachronism analogous anathema anemometer anesthetic. Anglophobia animadversion animalcule annihilate annunciation antecede antecedent antechamber antediluvian antemeridian antemundane antenatal anterior anthropology anthropomorphous anticlimax anticyclone antipathize antiquary antiseptic antispasmodic apothecary.

Apotheosis apparition appellation appertain apposition appreciable apprehensible approbation appropriate aqueduct aqueous arborescent arboretum arboriculture archdeacon archaeology archipelago arrangement. Arthurian ascension aspiration assailant assassination assimilate atomizer atonement atrocious audacious audition. Augustinian auricular auriferous authenticity autobiography automaton autonomous autonomy autumnal auxiliary aversion avocation azalea. Baconian bacterium barcarole barograph barometer baritone battalion beatitude believe belligerent benediction benefactor benefice beneficent beneficial beneficiary benevolence benevolent benignity bequeath bereave bibliomania bibliography bibliophile bibulous biennial bilateral bilingual boisterous bombardier botanical brigadier. Britannia brokerage bureaucracy. Cadaverous calculable capacious capitulate caricature carnivorous catastrophe. Catholicism cauterize censorious centiliter centimeter centurion ceremonial ceremonious chameleon characteristic characterize chateau. Christendom chronometer circumference circumlocution.

Circumnavigate clairvoyance clamorous clandestine coagulate coalescence coincidence collaborate collapsible collegian colloquial colloquialism commemorate commissariat competitive complacence complaisance complication comprehensible comprehension comprehensive compulsion compunction concession conciliatory concordance concurrence condensation confectionery confederacy confederate confinement conflagration conformation congenial conjugation connoisseur consanguineous conscientious consecutive conservatism conservative conservatory consolidate conspicuous constellation consternation constituency constituent consumption. Contagion contagious contaminate contemporaneous contemporary contemptuous contiguity contiguous continuance continuation continuity continuous contradiction contradictory contraption contravene contribution contributor contumacious convalescence convalescent convenience convolution convulsion cornucopia coronation corporeal correlative correspondence corroborate corroboration cosmopolitan cosmopolitanism counterbalance contortion counterfeit counterpart countervail courageous creamery credulous criterion crustacean cretaceous. Debonair deciliter. Decalogue decimeter decapitate deceitful.

Aside: This post has single handedly brought the blog readability index of yours truly up from elementary to genius... here's thumbing things at you Rant-man. Long live random web dictionaries!

For the record

2008-01-18T10:04:00.000+05:30

Yes... I did wake up in a bad mood... give me Robin McKinley or give me sleep. Or chocolate. Actually, make that and chocolate please... to go.

10.04 AM is such a dreadfully awful time to be writing posts. It's almost like having a job.

Saying Grace

2008-01-17T23:29:00.000+05:30

I love the idea of cosmic souls. I love the idea of hot chocolate fudge... the real thing and not what they simply pass off as fudge when it's actually sundae. I love the idea of ruby red. I love the idea of sword-fighting... not fencing. I love cats. I love dogs. Sometimes even kids. The smaller the better. I love the smell of fire. I love being right here right now, even though I sound like a Backstreet Boys' track gone horribly wrong. I love the idea of evenings and nights. I love black. I love penthouses and studio apartments with french windows overlooking busy streets. I love not having peptic ulcer. I love that my nose is a little broken... I think it lends me distinction. I love blues and slow music. I love fast music. I love waltz. I love salsa. I love rea-hlly dark chocolate. I love words. I love being an artist manquee. I love having money. I love the internet. I love laughing with people I like. I like smiling at people for no reason... I love it when they smile back. I love the idea of being a little psychotic and self obsessed without having to be apologetic about it. I love being able to do everything I want to do. I love being loved.

I hate that I just might wake up in an atrocious mood tomorrow and that Frankie and Johnny may not be on.

Curiosity...

2007-11-27T18:03:00.002+05:30

... killed the cat. One wonders why.

That's all.

(This is my The-Devil-Wears-Prada moment... please observe silence for a few beers)

Spelling Arrivederci: To See If I Can

2007-11-21T22:15:00.000+05:30

I have arrived... and strangely enough, despite being me, I don't quite know whether I should italicize have or arrived. And hence:

1) I have arrived.

2) I have arrived.

Take your pick. Either ways. After two bus journeys, misguided (unguided?!?) autorambos, assorted traffic signals, two blisters on different feet, and two-and-sumfing inch heels. And they say Alexander was a fighter? Ha!

And what about those dragons, hmmm?!? Faster Igor... faster.

2007-11-18T10:05:00.000+05:30

The last week's been a trifle cyan, if you know what I mean. And then on Friday I go to sleep at ten thirty, wake up to screams elevenish... and the red and gold burst out of nowhere. I've always liked being me in an abstract sort of manner. Now, until the next accident ambles into collision path, I like being me at this particular time in presentory. So yes... as of now, I like being "settled"... if only it didn't sound so like a gamester's bet, I wouldn't mind being so for the entire of my life. As it is, I think I'll give it the coming ten years. And S, if you're reading this, the office has got to be in red-and-gold... and P can choose the shades for her tattoo corner.

I'm too moved for anything else today... it's strange how unsettling settling in can be. Meanwhile, if anyone wants to help... rattle off books with dragons in them... in starring roles if possible... the obscurer the book the better it smells.

Maybe I am religious.

Clarification: Un-titled due to celebration.

Burp!

2007-11-13T22:56:00.000+05:30

I've been gone quite some time... again. Consistency has always been a problem the evil triplet-twin of my 3rd multiple personality has had to deal with... that and a justified jelly bean fixation. More on that on 6th April.

Meanwhile... the interview happened. And that's all I have to say about that. Though the heels looked good. So did the hair. I got it cut to look like Sandy's... the neigbourhood pomerian. And the interviewers had nice cookies. Chocolate. Not chocolate chips, which shows their sterling character. And that is not a pun... as if I'd stoop to sumfing that low.

The semester results materialized out of nowhere as usual. I'd be suicidal if I wasn't convinced of the capitalist-conspiracyist nature of modern education, and of my own innate worth which makes me indispensable to the emerging world order. Wise quips on the next counter please... we take cash.

The winter placement's been panning out fine... just the right dash of sporadic. Absenteeism is a good motto to have. Since I've already booked dark chocolate. Also since I've been back home for quite some time now, my system is now almost purged of coffee... I don't look like a Gary-Cooper-meets-Dev-Anand version of a Woody Allen protagonist dancing to Bappi's Disco Dancer on a Friday afternoon. I understand that's a lot of images to work through. Hire a manicurist.

And when I make my Bank-of-England-loads of money, I'll buy two houses. One will only be a pretend house where I'll never live and I could always tell people I wasn't home when they called. I mean, really, if I wanted to call you over, I'd have taken you out anyway. To The Park - it has immense religious significance at least till the end of this week.

P.S. I was in the queue for a temporary gate pass in the Supreme Court the other day, when this other lawyer told me to cut the line and get the pass made... "know your status as a lawyer". That stuck. I don't quite know why. But it did. Not good or bad, you know... just very, very adhesive.

Odyssey

2007-10-29T19:02:00.000+05:30

n., a journey of epic proportions; a coffee shop in Hyderabad with an attached bookstore. Nice books.

I’m writing this in time to the lurches of the Little Red Train (which I’ll have you know has grown up just fine) that has agreed to take me back home. So nice of it, don’t you think? I’m writing this (no, I did not ctrl+C it… it just came from within) because I slept the entire of yesterday and I simply haven’t the moral courage to do so anymore and Delhi is far, f-a-r off.

Also I have inspiration. For one, there is the tree that the train just passed that looked like a dancing lady with an urn… or alternatively like a baby reindeer with holly leaves wrought into its antlers… or like a stooped man in a raincoat and a dripping hat… the train was going too fast and that’s all the resemblances that leapt to mind. The other inspiration is the kid from hell. If I ever, ever have a kid like that… I’d shoot its father. Right now, as of this moment, she wants a balloon. And she’s not afraid to throw tantrums till she gets one. On a friggin’ train? She really can’t be that challenged. I wonder what… oh wow! I mean, oh wow! Her mom just told her to sit tight (a lot of other epithets were attached, but since they were nice ones there’s no point mentioning them here) and she’ll buy her a whole packet of balloons when they get home, so the hellgirl could blow them up on her own. And the kid capisched! I’ve always wondered what breed moms are… where they innovate, I’d simply have brained. We need more moms in the Cabinet. And less aunts.

Next up. There was a guy sitting next to me. Not on the train: on the train I’m one of the elites with “a berth of my own”. Somewhere else. He hadn’t brushed… for ages presumably… and he kept breathing at me. Wooh! An experience if ever there was one. I’ve always wondered about those diet plans that keep asking you to have plenty of water first thing in the morning, even before brushing. Frankly, I think that’s disgusting. In fact, I think the entire idea of dieting is disgusting… a little like self-flagellation. Unless it’s for reasons of health, in which case, it’s disgusting with an excuse.

Right now it’s sunny on one side of the train and foggy on the other. Needless to say… the view out my window is the foggy one. Typical, isn’t it? And a companion road just started. I like it better when I’m on the road running parallel to train-tracks, then when I’m on a train running parallel to a road. Just one of those character kinks I suppose. Apparently Clooney knits.

And with that ten minutes have passed. Leaving only two-and-half hours of waiting time. Oh hell! I am going to sleep… even if it kills me.

Thank you for listening. Goodnight Congo.

Later, much later: I reached... three hours late. And mom was waiting on the station – the entire three hours. I'm one lucky girl. I love you mommy.

A Quick Post Goodbye

2007-10-28T05:25:00.000+05:30

A month of back-breaking work... or so I like to think... and now it's my favourite time of the year again. So despite sleeping through the end-sems, I was up the entire last night... it's strange the priorities human psyche has where insomnia is concerned. I mean really... where is a good insomnia when you need one? And there it goes slobbering all over you just when you'd much rather sleep through the long wait home.

So anyway. I was up the entire night watching movies and I was thinking of whether I am a cat-person or a dog-person. And I decided I'm a little of both... sort of like Phantom... only with less purple. A lot less purple. Or the cool signet ring that leaves marks. Reah-lly... a skull? How cliche is that!

I think I'll just leave now... the car is here. The train will be here when I'm there... which makes sense if you write it on a sheet of paper and work it through. And then home.

Italicizing is the New Bold

2007-09-28T19:38:00.000+05:30

I saw Working Girl. Ounces better than The Devil Wears Prada for one. Importantly, it reminded me of someone I know. At least the first bit did... before the delicious entree. If you don't know what that means, then you obviously

a) Have not seen the movie, or

b) Are not a girl (woman? Not lady... this much I'm sure of)

Meanwhile the year end is almost upon us... and despite the best predictions of my jyotishi I still haven't had my affair... not even the whiff of one actually... and believe me I have been looking... so have my friends of course but in the wrong places and at the wrong, reah-lly wrong people... children must have their fun. The point is, this time I was sure because he gave me a ring to ward off the planetary influences that would precipitate the affair and the ring gave me a rash... a green rash for some weird berger reason. So you see don't you.. the fates want me to have an affair... the odds are drastically reduced... so much so that even a tax accountant would find it too predictable to be betted on. And yet here I am... doing all my projects on my own. And paying my own bill at the dhaba. Oh well... there's always Tom and Jerry.

I wonder what oysters taste like? The one thing I will do before I die is learn wine-tasting (Learn?!? "Excuse the novice, masther", slurred Egor to Count Dracula as CD told him for the ninety-seventh time that month how to toast marshmallows). And Dracula reminds me... Van Helsing is passable... though I like the black werewolf better than Jackman. If it wasn't for the comfort of my heels, I'd know I was pagan. As it is, sleeping with them under my pillow has been helping a lot... I hear the alarm go off now.

R called today... she just got a job... I'm proud of you sweetheart and wish you the very, very best. If truth be told, I think as of this moment, I'm a wee bit homesick. Okay... maybe a little more than a wee bit. As long as I'm not bawling. Or throwing things. The last looks so tempting on TV... vent frustration... break the Lladro vase... and then pick up after yourself? Anti-climax... very funny anti-climax and since I like wallowing in my moods for at least a day or two, I don't do this more than can be helped. Why let go of a good angst? Onwards charioteer, Betty Foy lives.

Parting Pinch: How much wood would the woodchuck chuck if Kipling's mongoose came for lunch?

Abenteuer

2007-09-26T21:32:00.000+05:30

It's been a good few days - from Saturday till today. Went home after eons... good food is undoubtedly the mainstay of civilization and law and order. Start scrumptious food distribution systems, call them Harry, and watch the crime rate plummet. I swear to gawd you'd soon see moms-in-law shopping with tax proffs for pink Christmas gifts.

Be that as it may, behaved extremely juvenile-ly despite A&A being quite out of action after a virulent virus visited. It's a good thing rock-paper-scissor is inter-generational. Which reminds me... if in a house, the ground floor has bombs, and the first floor has chocolates, what would the second floor have? Go on... think like a 8 year old... it shouldn't be too hard, and I mean this in the nicest way. No? Oh well... burgers. I don't know why either. But that's what A felt like eating then. Hence. So anyway.

CCD on Sunday... espresso after four and three seventh lifetimes of powdered milk coffee. Ummmm! Also Ayu-ffee...

Shopped for my interview... on my own for the first time since sixth grade... c'était un cauchemar... bought my first pair of heels... no wonder they are called stilettos... sheer murder... but so very, very desirable. Put your hands together for my first love... a pair of shoes. Typical.

Post-birthday treat on Monday... the four of us together for the first time since time began... we are a bunch of idiots to have not done this before... especially because it was not merely almost fun... it was fun... S divorced me and got hit on by a guy with a green matka, T made eyes at fellow passengers on a hot rainy day, while P thought of food and salivated. If music is the ultimate expression of the human soul, we might, for all we know, have been chanting Dilwalon ke dil ka at full volume, top speed, and no holds barred. Yes, no bars held either.

After appropriately stunning the Basanti that fell to our share with our multilinguality, we barged in at 3.20ish for the buffet ending 3.30. Good Samaritans, like ghosts, exist. For the rest... o-r-g-y is a good word... distinctive and indicative of the sense of abandonment it means to depict. Conversation would have flowed, but we were too engrossed in other matters to notice, even if one of us had spoken up, which I doubt.

That evening we won the Twenty20. Tuesday was a holiday. And today, after a particularly interesting Environment Law class, just a few minutes back S and P have promised to do something which it would be quite enjoyable to watch them accomplish. And hilarious. What dull lives moral people must lead.

It's been an eventful half-a-week. 'Nuff said.

Dial-an-Intrigue

2007-09-19T01:29:00.000+05:30

It's simply staggering how many things make me want to learn the salsa... the latest to enlist is Sway by Michael Buble.

Yes, I think it's a nice last name too.

Meanwhile I await the conspiracy of the elements... salsa... sooner or later. Also, now that I come to think of it, origami. One wishes Parker Pynes existed.

Saturday Night Philosophy

2007-09-17T21:14:00.000+05:30

I went to watch a movie with a few friends and this one fellow said that songs in Hindi movies are but metaphors of life and feelings... how they are not on-screen superpeople but ordinary everydayers... only with songs in their hearts.

In the middle of a perfectly trashy film? Some people are such killjoys I tell you.

The Insider Reports

2007-09-14T17:05:00.000+05:30

A few gems encountered in the three years of pretending to traipse through law school. Let's not get apologetic shall we. "Wallow" has such a nice ring to it. If only the pigs hadn't made it so pedestrian.

"Justice while it winks at crimes
Stumbles on innocence sometimes."

"Justice must not only be seen to be done. It must be seen to be believed."

"The court will not deny equal protection of the law to the unwashed, unshod, unkempt and uninhibited."
(Herman Weinkrantz, ruling that disapproval of hippies should not interfere with their civil rights)

"This is a British murder inquiry and some degree of justice must be seen to be more or less done."

"How much justice can you afford?"
(Anonymous lawyer's answer to a client's demand for justice)

When a 10 year sentence was imposed on the accused:
Prisoner: My lord! Ten years! I'm seventy-six. I'll never do them.
Justice Stevenson: Ah well! Do as many as you can!

Scene from A Night At The Opera by the Marx Brothers where the artists are discussing the clauses of a contract:
"Groucho: Oh, that's nothing. That's the usual clause in every contract. It says that if any of the parties participating in the contract are shown to be not in their right mind, the contract is nullified.
Chico: What do you call it?
Groucho: That's what they call a sanity clause.
Chico: You can't fool me. There ain't no sanity clause!"

"The rain it raineth on the just
And also on the unjust fella,
But chiefly on the just, because
The unjust steals the just's umbrella."

"The law doth punish man or woman
That steals the goose from off the common,
But lets the greater felon loose,
That steals the common from the goose."
(Anonymous 18th century jibe at the Enclosure Acts)

"This is the grave of Mike O'Day
Who died maintaining his right of way.
His right was clear, his will was strong,
But he's just as dead as if he'd been wrong."
(Anonymous epitaph)

"Reform? Reform? - Why, aren't things bad enough already?"
(Lord Justice Astbury)

"The law in its majestic equality, forbids rich and poor alike to sleep under bridges, beg in the streets or steal bread."
(Anatole France)

"We all know here that the law is the most powerful of schools for the imagination. No poet ever interpreted nature as freely as a lawyer interprets the truth."

"The Lord Chief Justice of England recently said that the greater part of his judicial time was spent investigating collisions between propelled vehicles, each on its own side of the road, each sounding its horn and each stationary."

"This contract is so one-sided that I am astonished to find it written on both sides of the paper."
(Lord Evershed discussing a standard form contract)

"The difference between divorce and legal separation is that legal separation gives a husband time to hide his money."

"She cried and the judge wiped away her tears with my cheque book."
(Tommy Manville after his thirteenth divorce)

Letter to Aetna Casualty Insurance Co.:
Gentlemen,

I had an accident yesterday. I consider that neither vehicle was to blame but if either were to blame, it was the other one.

There now. I thought you'd like them.

Keep breathing.

(Alekhya)

Brownian Thoughts

2007-09-11T21:01:00.000+05:30

If people/things had no names, would they still be what they are or might they shape-shift into each other occasionally?

It’s strange but from the purest of motives my friends don’t talk of D any more and hence, it was only today through the offices of two non-friends that I realized how very, very funny all of it was… maybe respecting sensibilities defeats its own purpose.

It was raining today and so hundreds of people were bartering shelter under awnings with willingness to buy tepid coffee. Inequity apart, most of them were either with friends or on phones. Sad. We can’t even watch the rain on our own anymore.

My niece finally called me bua. I’d be thrilled if only she signified some differentiation in pronunciation with respect to that and a dog’s bark. However, the enunciation was directed at me and she’s too young to be consciously abusive. Hence I hope for the best. Also she’s started walking… though she might still be asked to pull up for drunken tottering. At least it's a start.

One day I’d have earned enough to walk into a bookstore, browse authors, and buy the entire oeuvre of a likely candidate. I’m comfortable being shallow, thank you very much.

Mid sems are history today… which leaves me with a couple of projects, one and a half couples of presentations, preparing for interview. Etcetera. And some fries to go with it. Now is therefore the perfect time to watch Pulp Fiction. Exit, stage right... watch out for the third step.

Waterloo and Assorted

2007-09-09T20:33:00.000+05:30

It's a strategic error to begin reading a book when on a time crunch. It usually goes for a six. The time crunch I mean. Not the reading - that would be a crime.

In Re The Proposed Moniker for the Contemplated Diary: I am christening it Tethalal Mamarde... and if you know why then I'm sorry for you... I really am.

Smile OK Please

2007-09-08T21:06:00.000+05:30

I shall, I believe, start a laughter diary to record when I laughed at what. I've been told it's a great indicator of character. That and how one eats apples. So by the end of the month, I should know enough about me to know whether I should buy Chocolate Truffle or Chocolate Total.

I wonder what I shall call it. Perhaps Pelham?

Aside: I wonder why they call it Absinthe... it's so perilously close to abstention that I always imagine it to be a quakerish man in an astrakhan coat frowning through the window pane. Now Rum sounds nice and frolicky... like a fun, rough-and-tumble sort of a person. Whisky, I'm afraid, sounds a little drunk and unable to carry it. Currently, I have no opinions to offer on Merlot. Let me read up on Arthur and I'll get back to you on this. Also, I wonder where the female liquors have gone off to.

Reviewing Real Estate

2007-09-02T21:02:00.000+05:30

I read The House on the Strand again today... it truly is magnificent... the grandeur is awe-inspiring. The sheer audacity of her... to think she could pull off a stunt like that! Multiple, multi-layered story-telling is a very, very hard technique to bring off successfully... and she doesn't even attempt her tracks in parallels... she coalesces and blends and makes two wholes into one: it's like mom makes the extra roti... a little atta from this and a little from that... and there it is... the roti that should not have existed but does due to the pure genius of creation.

The colours are brilliant... even the winter-white has the sheen of a glassed-over lake. It's a monochromatic part of the earth - all greys and whites - landscapes and people. But how it sparkles in the moonlight!

A world so marvellously peopled by the reals and the caricatured with equal panache and equal claim to existence. Admittedly, it's a man's world that she sketches... but with so sure a perception, even if the hand be a trifle unsteady, that the monosexual environs seem as unquestionable as the aurora - a flickering, magical world of mirages waltzing with reality to the tune of Pan's pipe. And the music goes on - a prologue long after the last page has been turned... she writes third stories within each reader. I don't know if that's a good thing though. But let her caress you into believing. It's a little like living after all.

Read it preferably at a stretch on a rainy evening. No coffee.

Provisionally Resuscitated

2007-08-31T22:45:00.000+05:30

After a long time, today I breathed again from eight in the evening till eight seventeen... now I must make like a wall plaster and study for mid semesters...

Oh well...

Appreciating Asmodai

2007-08-29T22:34:00.000+05:30

There are quite a few people who are not just people… they are artists… and not your unshaved, shoeless variety… they are the real thing… they are where it’s at… and a smattering of them are soulless… for they are so absolutely topping at what they do that they’re sure to have rented their soul to the devil, if not to have auctioned it outright… or maybe even sold it over the counter at a 10% discount…

There is of course du Maurier… nobody could possibly question the authenticity of the fact that she had sold her soul to the devil… after all she is so darn delightful… there is also I believe Wodehouse, who in the enormity of his heart faced the world with a brave smile, not wanting us mortals to know of the vaccum in his gallbladder where his soul had put up a “To Let” sign and rented a summer cottage in the Hades… Christie I think leased her soul out at different periods of time… there are in her oeuvre occasional gems indicative of the truly soulless… Dickens and Hardy fancied themselves soulless and that I’m afraid has been their undoing all along… and one cannot not mention von Trapp – mere modesty aside: soulleast, if ever there was one.

To think all great literature and street-corner pubs are nothing but the indelible signs of the munificence resident in dear Ol’ Nick’s heart… the misunderstood unappreciated poor little dah-ling! Sniff!

Fifteen Dead...

2007-08-28T14:58:00.000+05:30

That was the day before. Yesterday a girl tried to resuscitate a sparrow that had hit the fan. The sparrow didn't make it through the night though.

Actually, it's not so much about life or death. Love or hate. Or fanaticism. Maybe money, yes. But not entirely.

When push comes to shove, I think it's about deciding to let the athapookalam remain and to make the rangoli around it: it's about letting be.

The Day Joseph Kesselring Rode Again

2007-08-21T19:15:00.000+05:30

Scene: Some day, some show, some kids... the mommies want the mommy-ers to lisp shaggy dog stories...

Kid A: There was a cat. No... actually there were three. No no... from the beginning ok? There were three ants. One was gray, one was white, and one was... uh... (the mommy responsible pssttss-ed from the third row)... yes... one was gray, one was white, one was green. A black ant (the kid in question was too young for arithmetic... but then, aren't we all?) asked the gray aunt why it was gray and the ant (the gray one and not the black) said it was because she ate stones (even the kid knew that an elephant would be a wee bit over-the-top perhaps). Ditto the green: because she ate grass. Punchline: the white: because she used Fair and Lovely. "Thank you".

Kid B: There were three ants. They planned for three days to eat a snake. The snake came and ate them. I want toffee.

I, for one, laughed. Fluoride and Old Bobbin, if ever there was one: with her heart in the right place.

La Famiglia

2007-08-19T13:47:00.000+05:30

Starring:

Banquo, the Serenade-er... the resident minstrel... even if a little mistimed.

Manpreet, the Juneja... friend, philosopher, guide... they don't stuff 'em the same no more.

Daisy, the Closet Monster (in closet)... lending new dimensions to the phrase "stage fright".

Artist's Rendering (Garbetian School)... inspired by the hieroglyphic graffiti in the Parthenon... by von Trapp.

The Arctic Winter is a Saturday Night

2007-08-16T14:40:00.000+05:30

Some weekend this was. To begin with, it commenced quite on schedule and rather hospitably volunteered to stretch till Wednesday – obviously an improvement. Then of course, after numerous calls of dithering, general lecturing, and chocolate chip cookies, the mountain came to Mahomet… with mirche ka achaar and lehsun chutney. To complete the effect and given the usual surfeit of weekend work (including assignments and laundry amongst the more diverting ones)… I remained inflexible, resolved, resolute, unyielding (etcetera) and as a matter of policy actuated by principles of high living and right thinking, buffed up my indolence to a finer point than even I ever thought possible. That again is always welcome… one wishes to add ‘change’ but lying to imaginary friends is not well-bred. My academic life of late has tiptoed as close to putting up a “To Let” sign as it possibly could without chipping a nail … al-most the novelty begins to keep continuously running off on coffee-breaks. It must, however, be admitted that this inactivity rounded the weekend off rather nicely… that and the crochet border.

Meanwhile, while I was away, a closet monster came to play and Manpreet had company over cocktails. The monster continues to keep dropping in even now and I’m planning to call her Daisy, after the cow. After all I can’t keep referring to her as “that monster”… it’s the same principle as in the case of mothers-in-law and potential-judicial-process-professors, only with more justification. Be that as it may, Daisy is almost family now… especially now that she has taken to borrowing my clothes without asking and forgetting to return them. Such affection reah-lly… sniff!

In passing: Whoever says cut-copy-paste is effortless and ‘easy’ should be flayed, impaled, hung, drawn and quartered after being made to attend Labour Law class punctuated with infomercials, with his/her eyes taped open. Socialism in projects is sound doctrine. So is communal authorship.

Snippets

2007-08-08T19:16:00.001+05:30

A. It was P's birthday yesterday... so today's been a lifetime and a day of bickering... and in all sobriety I modify the past 15 years of "I'd have preferred the salamander" to read "No salamander makes chocolate cake as well as you do"... cheers!

B. Today, after a month and a half of exile, I was returning home. And then I wasn't. Now maybe home will come to hostel. Last bulletin awaited with bated breath. But then I haven't lived with my luck for the past so many years in an entirely clueless fashion.

C. I rediscovered why I am infatuated with older men. Not that after last night's Sean Connery extravaganza, I needed any reminding. But I did anyway.

D. Another birthday tomorrow. I feel so old all of a sudden. Not jaded you know... just old... in a now-I've-seen-everything sort of way. Which is very strange given that all the world I have seen is home, school and college... and two-thirds of these as instruments and vehicles of capitalist conspiracy to enslave the youth of today. Which would be okay if it didn't include me. Which is also why the youth of yesterday and tomorrow must rent their own spokespersons: the current rate seems to be two and a half bars of Milky Bar and one of Juditha Triumphans. What I need is a chocolate cake, a Maggie party and lots of coke. What I have, on the other hand, is a project in Interpretation of Statutes. Life, such as it is, goes on.

E. There are lots of words I like the sound of: there is salsa... I like the way my tongue rolls when I say it. There is also Michigan... I like the slight whistle that sounds. Then there is snippets. Point being I don't get to use these words everyday, in my day-to-day-oh-gawd-look-at-them sort of life. Also that perhaps my favourite phrase would be "Snippets of salsa in Michigan"... I'd like Chile certainement, if only I was sure once and for all of the pronunciation.

F. This is primarily just because... though the fact that three multiplied by two is six figures somewhere.

Learning from the Ostriches

2007-08-03T20:14:00.001+05:30

The two things I haven't been able to get the hang of in the three-odd years of my adult existence are ironing clothes and saying goodbye: I keep wanting to put both off for tomorrow and keep hoping they'll come up with self-ironing clothes or sumfing.

The goodbyes will still remain a problem though. One could say au revoir: but isn't that like hiding your tooth and brushing it everyday anyway, when one could've traded it for whatever the prevalent exchange rate is in tooth fairy stocks? Pointless, if you know what I mean.

Meanwhile, until a breakthrough is made in this regard, I prefer to sleep through the goodbyes. After all, everything said and done, Ostriches have survived evolution just as well as we have. And they have better plumage.

Watch Before Sunrise and Before Sunset: in the latter, watch the last shot at least thrice. Not just because three is a good number.

Insomnia

2007-08-02T03:27:00.000+05:30

In a world where it takes approximately 157.94 hours for a could-be to become a has-been, it’s a wonder that it takes ice-cream all of 7.49 minutes to semi-melt.

Little miracles such as this make me glad that I remembered to get chicken curry along for the long ride home.

(Alternatively, I could stay up and beat about frenziedly for the tooth fairy… we have a flutter going… I suspect she looks a little like Bugs, the Bunny while Banquo bets on Bevan, the Beaver. Let’s see what turns up)

The Little Prince

2007-07-26T17:44:00.000+05:30

There are certain stories so full of beauty that they wring all the unexercised joy out of my heart into the wind such that all I can do is dance and quite forget that I don’t know how to. So haunting that they bring to life a primordial exultation embedded in the very marrows of being. So throbbing with the unadorned energy of existence, bursting at the seams with such a sense of wonder, that they make me regret that I am neither the nightingale nor the rose.

I am deeply humbled on being invited into a few of these tales as if I was one of their own – for being permitted to hide in the grandfather clock, share crumpets, hew logs and be tamed by the boy from B-612 with the laugh like tinkling bells. And I am grateful for being allowed to sneak a few hours of these stories’ lives into mine.

And hence, for today, I was Betty Foy:

for today, I was a believer.

In Memoriam

2007-07-23T19:36:00.000+05:30

Memory jumpstarts at the oddest of times. Today in Labour Law class, I thought of my grandfather for no earthly reason whatsoever. And I remembered a story he would always tell me… about a swami and a snake and how the latter eventually became a reformed character… unfortunately, then as now, the world hadn’t much use for a reformed anything, let alone a snake, and so people threw stones at him and beat him with sticks… and when the snake went to the swami to tell him that the swami had it all wrong with his rest-in-peace-thingummy, this chap tells the reptile-wonder that he had told him to stop biting, and not hissing…
Now of course I must have been a rather obtuse kid to have fallen for this tale… remarkably ignorant of poststructural and neocolonial streams of thought, not to say Marxist critiques, deconstructionism or even good ol’ feminist jurisprudence… at all times that this tale got told… and I remember making sure that it did get told quite often… I lapped it up like a camel readying for a two-month-trek into Havana…

But that is not what I thought of today… I thought today of the way grandfather would hiss… technically there were only two places one could logically work the hiss in – the scene where the snake first meets the swami and the place where the swami tells the snake to hiss… but I would desire a constant background refrain of hisses in various pitches… mostly in the wrong places and in the wrong key… a hiss when the swami met the villagers, a hiss when the weather changed, a hiss in the middle of quite, quite different stories… sometimes even while having lunch I’d walk up to him and ask him to hiss… and he would… the something-year old man would hiss in a high or low key for his granddaughter… and before today, I never quite comprehended the sheer sumptuousness of the scene…

Like I said… I must have been a very obtuse kid.

A Misnomer Perhaps?

2007-07-18T20:36:00.001+05:30

There are good days. And there are bad. There are days when the sun is shining and my nose isn’t, my socks match, classes get cancelled and the lunch is edible. There are days when there is no electricity, water and my laptop is charge-less. There are days when I’m so down in the dumps that I’m sure the dump-keeper must be Australian. There are days when it kills me to not waltz into the honcho’s den and sashay around his hideous-desk-like-thingummy.

There are friggin’ good days. There are friggin’ bad days.

I wouldn’t mind either variety. But what I usually get are the in-betweeners.

For someone trying to live up to Betty Foy, I don’t seem to have grasped the trick to lifting the sash of the kitchen window without leaving footprints on the ledge and fingerprints on the flower bed. Whenever I try, I always wake the baby. Oh well.

Reconsidering 'X'

2007-07-15T16:17:00.000+05:30

"She was too busy examining this new world into which she had been abruptly cast, this world where dolls had souls and jokes lost their point."

To think Wodehouse had such unplumbed depths to his soul... and I always waved him off as a frippery fellow... the kind who is good enough for an icecream or two but not devout enough for the soup...

Maybe I should have married him...

Stop Press!

2007-07-12T22:38:00.000+05:30

In law school they teach us to make like chefs and question everything that moves and if the salt be just right, then even flick a passing query at things that don’t so move. And hence, this is what we had for breakfast today…

If the fertility rate in the State has decreased, why are school children celebrating… no one ever told me they are the segment most affected by fluctuations in fertility rate…
Also the following excerpts had us intrigued (of course they also had us rolling in the aisles… but it was intrigued mirth, who is the first cousin, never removed, of tears of joy)… the fertility rate has come down due to – and this is right off the presses – “concerted effort by the government at the highest levels”… I wonder if they really meant to write that?
And before I forget, there is further cause for the kids to bring out their Pokémons (or whatever it is that they play with these days) and wave them about joyously… the Maternity Mortality Rate and Infant Mortality Rate has also slumped since the Ministry for Health and Rural Affairs issued 8 lakh bus passes to pregnant women – bus passes today… free bibs tomorrow… “down with the IMR we say… shut down the penny stores… free liquor for those above five-and-a-half feet…”

Once in a while the perspicuity of politics renders even me speechless…

The Word 'Trite' has Potential

2007-07-09T15:33:00.000+05:30

Today, I

Finished the entire Hindu crossword
Submitted two projects
Did not sleep in Labour Law class
Cleaned my room

I will now go jump off the ledge… all my property is hereby bequeathed to Manpreet Juneja… the only one who really understood me and is not yet in a psychiatric ward.

The Weakening of my Moral Fiber

2007-07-06T14:27:00.000+05:30

I used to be sure about not wanting anything I hadn’t earned. I am not as sure now. The rabbit lost to the tortoise in the ‘lal batti’ a minute and a half back… perhaps our fairytales were all wrong… these new-fangled Japanese cartoons seem to have got the right angle on reality…

I have semi-seen the outside world and, for today, I firmly suspect I’m allergic to it… maybe I’ll retreat to the Himalayas and breed exotic fungi… just me, my fungi and the voices within my head… and maybe one day when I’m trying my best to potter about in my snow garden with arthritic joints and a whopping cold, it’ll rain chocolates…

‘Jade’ the Poodle

2007-07-05T21:13:00.000+05:30

I was Frederick von Trapp’s poodle today… the one with the pink ribbon… no, not the poodle with the pink ribbon… I meant the von Trapp with the pink ribbon… it’s a clique-thing he likes to do each time his nanny leaves…

Mere mortals apart… like I said… being a poodle is not very easy as everyone knows… not you of course… you wouldn’t… but everyone else knows the immense responsibilities, not to say the colossal obligations, attached to the station of ‘le poodle extraordinaire’… one must stand on two and three-quarters of one’s five legs and recite a nursery rhyme known only to the sixty-year-olds in the 18th century… each poodle family has it’s own conductor… ours has been Wagner since the 1300s… and so today I sang the Nibbledlungs… or something similar which I can’t spell… from 2.17 in the morning till 2.15 of the same morning… and I am now wheezy because of the harpsichords… excuse me while I roll over and play dead for a while and maybe we can have this board meeting the day after my birthday… may your collar never straighten and tail never curl… or is it the other way around… one never does know… all one is safe with is chocolates… they never bit my father and they’ll never bite me…

(Back to environment law now I suppose… oh well… perhaps tomorrow I can be Bertie Wooster… oh and Banquo says hello)

The Might-have-been

2007-07-02T18:23:00.000+05:30

The myriad images smoke unfurls into atop chimneys and elsewhere have always fascinated me like a song I knew but couldn’t remember… today as I gaze across the lake, a smoke-rabbit-with-a-patch-over-an-eye indicates a chimney, and I may have been quite content watching it twitch its tail if my environment law project had not been air pollution…

If it must be a choice between Charles Dickens and Mary Poppins, secret ballot is a prerequisite… so that I don’t discover where my loyalties lie.

Forecast Today

2007-06-30T21:11:00.000+05:30

Today was once-in-a-blue-moon… if only it hadn’t been so cloudy maybe something would have actually happened… oh well… the weather’s looking up and maybe we’ll have a honey-on-golden-toasted-bread day next week… Banquo talks in whispers of the foretelling of a ruby-and-garnet day… but that I think is just creative-dyspepsia… though it would be a bit of an adventure… I vaguely remember the fuzzy crimson glow of one such morning when I was very young… very, very young I should think else the blaze wouldn’t be so misty… I also think that I had chocolate cake that day… either that or I almost fell into the cactus shrub near the driveway… either ways it was a smidgen of an adventure and I’ve liked ruby-and-garnet days ever since…

Amen Banquo… may the dyspepsia never leave…

When Hansel Met Gretel

2007-06-26T01:15:00.000+05:30

Imagine a bright little Hansel with no bread… imagine an unidea-ed Gretel and the bread she was saving for trading for a pan… Hansel requires a knife in order to cut the bread into equal pieces – symmetry is life… he tries to improvise a knife out of a matchstick, two coins and a banana leaf… by the time he has managed to balance one coin atop a matchstick, Gretel finds a signpost pointing the way home… however, only Hansel has the authorization to decipher the directions… he tries… meanwhile, to pass time, Gretel hollers for a cab and fights with him over the extortionate fare… “you can’t fool me… I live in this ‘ere wilderness”… Hansel pouts… Gretel haggles – successfully… Hansel back-seat-drives… on the way Hansel buys a map and Gretel buys potatoes ‘real-cheap’… one never knows with roadmaps and potatoes… the more the merrier…

They did reach home – eventually… and I am glad they were together… the wonder of it is that so were they…

The Mystery of the Extra Toenail

2007-06-22T03:04:00.000+05:30

I wish someone would tell me what exactly the caricature of the Oldest Member looked like in the last but one chapter in Clicking of Cuthbert… it’s been giving me sleepless nights, and everyone knows how bad that is for in-growing toenails.

Anyone? Will you do it for a Snooby Snack?!?

A Four AM Thought at Five

2007-06-21T17:13:00.000+05:30

If someone likes the rain but doesn’t like getting wet… does that make such (an entirely hypothetical) person split-personalitied or an idealist?

Send in your answers by 07.07.07 (the number is starting to grow on me) and win exciting prizes.

And so it begins...

2007-06-19T03:17:00.000+05:30

I wanted to start a blog on a special day... but my birthday is too far away and 07.07.07 just doesn't intrigue me enough... and a numeric quirk or dates with megalomanial flavors are the only things that appeal to me... apart from chocolate which sadly, in the mundane world of floating diurnes, is neither here nor there... also as of this moment I haven't a thing to do... which of course means that it is time to air the curtains and empty the ashtray... "new beginnings, new beginnings" hums the darned toad impersonating Banquo near my window ledge...

Welcome to my world... feel free to drop in... no dogs allowed... one wishes to exclude toads as well but Banquo croaks his disapproval. Bring your own food. No entry fee for the married and siblinged...

And maybe tomorrow I'll post a picture of the toad...